


Keep on Turning Pages

by Bloodsbane



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Adjacent, Crushes, Flowers, Fluff and Humor, Friendship, Gen, Hanahaki Disease, Hanahaki-Typical Body Horror, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Light Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-30
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-16 23:33:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29090607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bloodsbane/pseuds/Bloodsbane
Summary: Martin is six when he coughs up his first petal. It falls silently onto his blanket, long and purple, slightly curled.Even so young, Martin knows about hanahaki. There are a lot of stories about it; Martin has picture books with characters who speak in rosy text. He’s always loved those stories, likes to see the colorful pictures of flowers, and they always end with two people being together forever. Those are his favorite stories, and so Martin feels excited about the petal, and he’s sad when his mother takes it away with her after kissing him goodnight.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 13
Kudos: 94





	1. Bittersweet Nightshade

**Author's Note:**

> I've always really enjoyed hanahaki as a concept, but especially takes on it that explore it beyond the usual 'unrequited love/confession or surgery' routes. I started working on this months and months ago, but it fell to the wayside. I want to start posting it now that I have a clear idea of where I want to take it/end it!
> 
> Each chapter focuses on a different angle of Martin's hanahaki, in this order: family (his mother), friends (tim and sasha), and lovers (jon), with the final chapter being a sort of epilogue. 
> 
> So, if you haven't caught on yet, this first chapter is a little heavy. You don't have to read it to enjoy the other parts of the fic, but the first two sections offer some more context for Martin's condition. You could read those and then skip if you'd like to avoid anything directly dealing with Martin's mother. 
> 
> CWs include:  
> \- Martin's mom being the way that she is (see implied/referenced child abuse tag)  
> \- Describing, in some detail, the way the hanahaki negatively affects Martin physically (ex. choking on flowers)  
> \- Mention/exploration of his grandfather's passing and Martin dealing with his grief

Martin is six when he coughs up his first petal. It falls silently onto his blanket, long and purple, slightly curled. His cry of surprise brings his mother running in, eyes wide with worry until he explains. Then she gives him a faint smile and tells him they’ll have to see a doctor tomorrow. **  
**

Even so young, Martin knows about hanahaki. There are a lot of stories about it; Martin has picture books with characters who speak in rosy text. He’s always loved those stories, likes to see the colorful pictures of flowers, and they always end with two people being together forever. Those are his favorite stories, and so Martin feels excited about the petal, and he’s sad when his mother takes it away with her after kissing him goodnight.

* * *

His diagnosis isn’t exactly rare, though certainly not so commonly seen in a child as young as him: chronic hanahaki, (currently) non-fatal. Martin grows up reading pamphlets and books that claim it’s normal for some people. There are folks who have ‘big feelings’, as one book likes to tell it. Not just for those they love romantically, but for family and friends too. In most cases, usually when the feelings are purely platonic or fleeting, only petals are produced. For particularly passionate or deep feelings, such as romantic love or yearning or grief, entire flowers can be grown.

When the nice old lady at the corner store hears about it from his dad, she just nods her head, like she suspected it all along, and pats Martin’s hair. “Always been a sweet one,” she says, “A clingy one. No surprise there, no, I’m sure he’ll be making pretty little bouquets for everyone ‘till he finds a nice girl to settle down with.” 

So Martin sometimes coughs up the purple petals when his mom tucks him in or reads him a bedtime story. Once, during one of the increasingly rare days he spends out with his dad, Martin has a coughing fit that produces an entire cloud of tiny pink flowers. They flutter down onto the sidewalk, pinpricks of color against the grey city, and Martin wishes he’d covered his mouth so he could hold them, keep them forever, because they’d tasted so sweet. But his father doesn’t let him, only rests a heavy hand on Martin’s shoulder to direct him back towards home. 

It’s the last good, clear memory Martin has of his dad, the flowers helping to brighten it up, just enough so it sticks. 

* * *

It’s not until Martin is nine that he begins to keep the flower petals, pressing them between the pages of journals he buys on clearance at the bookstore. By then, it’s just him and his mother; by then, he’s learned to keep them hidden whenever possible, always covering his mouth at the threat of any cough or hiccup that might unsettle something soft hiding in his chest. 

Before the death of Martin’s grandfather, his mother never said much about his condition. She would pick up the petals with a sigh and throw them away if she found them, but no more than that. 

After the funeral, when Martin tries to remember his grandfather’s face, his voice, the last thing he said, there come white and red petals, like crinkled tissue paper. His mother hears him, finds him crying over the mess in his lap, and much to his alarm, she immediately begins yelling at him. She snatches up the petals, crying, swearing, and Martin has to leave her crumpled there, on the floor, too startled and upset by her outburst to do anything but flee. 

The petals are all gone by morning. But they come again and again, until Martin forgets to be sad. He saves three and keeps them, labels them ‘For grandpa’ in the journal he hides in his sock drawer. 

* * *

When Martin is eleven, he makes a page ‘For Eric’, a boy in his class with shiny hair and pretty blue eyes. Martin sits close enough to overhear his conversations, but can never bring himself to cross that little gap of space between them. Something in him wants, so earnestly, to become friends with Eric, becomes fixated on the idea of sitting next to him at lunch. But Eric has lots of friends and is always busy with them, and Martin is too shy to fit in with a crowd like that. So instead he presses rosebuds for Eric, bright white against the faded brown pages, like melting snowflakes. 

* * *

For every boy he can never bring himself to talk to, despite how much he likes their laugh or smile or jokes, there is a page. On each page there are petals, carefully preserved, innocent admissions of passing affection. 

Before Martin drops out of school, he amasses quite a collection. But none of these boys, even combined, earn as many petals as his mother.

His mother, who becomes distant and quiet.

His mother, who can’t get around like she used to. She stumbles and wavers, even when doing simple tasks.

His mother, who is sick, who needs his help. 

It’s why Martin has to miss so much school, why he eventually stops going altogether. It’s why Martin starts working, why he learns how to clean and cook and pay their bills so she doesn’t have to worry about it. It’s why Martin forgets about all those boys. 

And for a while, there are no flowery pages, no scraps of poetry framed with violets.

* * *

Martin learns to stop walking down the hallway so loudly. He learns how to stop over-salting dinner. He learns when not to touch. He learns to stop saying certain things to his mother, which only ever seem to make her angry now, even if he can’t understand why. The words are there, behind his teeth, ready to be given. But he swallows them instead.

They come back up later, one night. Martin finds himself kneeling, retching, choking on something bittersweet. The flowers are large purple things with bright yellow stamens, vibrant and accusatory where they pile up on his bedroom floor. 

Martin gags, tears rolling down his cheeks, but makes sure to stay as quiet as possible until it’s over. Then he saves one and throws the others away, wrapping them up in a bag so his mother won’t see them on accident. 

* * *

Martin’s mother has many pages in his journal. Over the years, he grows all sorts of flowers for her. White nettle with their large, stinging leaves. Purple hyacinth festers in his chest for weeks, clusters so thick Martin has trouble breathing, and he nearly suffocates when it finally comes up. Every month, hops and fig marigold. Every year, elderberries and bluebells. 


	2. Yellow Roses

In retrospect, it takes longer than Martin would have expected for his little secret to come out at work. One of his secrets, anyway. Lucky for him it wasn’t the more serious one that had to do with his total lack of credentials. Getting caught and fired for lying on his CV is still a legitimate nightmare of Martin’s, even after all these years of working at the institute. It’s the only full-time job he’s ever had, not to mention the fact that it pays well enough to support him and his mother, so long as he stays frugal.

So, no, Martin finds he doesn’t really have much to complain about when he finally coughs up a petal in front of his friends. Luckily Jon isn’t present, just Tim and Sasha, the three of them tucked into their usual corner at the bar. Trivia had just wrapped up and alcohol was flowing freely now that none of them needed to conjure up factoids. Tim had been in the middle of a story, tripping over details in that way he does when he gets tipsy. Sasha was beside him, giggling up a storm. Martin sat across from them, nursing his third drink, and he knew he couldn’t get the smile off his face. 

It had taken a while for all of them to get situated in the archives. It had been a pretty rough start, actually. Martin never would have imagined he could be sitting with his coworkers like this, that these kinds of after-work drink situations could become a new normal. There are even times when Jon comes along with them, that’s how much the atmosphere has changed since the early days. Amazing what eight months can do. 

The petal sneaks its way out in the middle of a laughing fit. Tim had just wrapped up his story with a flourish, and Martin hadn’t really thought it was all that funny, but Sasha snorts when she laughs too hard, which got Martin going. There’s barely any time to register the tickle in his throat before it flies out. The petal twirls and flutters before landing in the middle of their table, a conspicuous shade of cheerful yellow. 

Tim and Sasha stare at it for a full ten seconds before Tim blurts, “Holy shit, dude.”

“Ah- s-sorry, uh, about that...” Martin’s hand twitches toward the petal, but Sasha picks it up first. She brings it up to her face, much too close to actually inspect, especially with her glasses on. Tim takes it from her, ignoring her hissing protest as he rubs it between thumb and forefinger. “Sorry,” Martin says again, bringing his drink up in an effort to hide his face. 

“You have hanahaki, Martin?” Sasha asks. She sounds a little more focused, though no less drunk, stumbling over the word ‘hanahaki’ twice.

“Uh, yeah.”

“Since when?” Tim asks, looking mildly concerned. 

Martin sighs and shrugs, putting on a reassuring smile. “I’ve had it since I was little. There’s no need to worry or anything.”

Tim looks just as incredulous as Martin was expecting. A lot of people don’t know about the different types of hanahaki, only ever hearing about or seeing the dramatic cases, ones that often end with teary confessions or surgeries. That’s what they tend to make movies about, anyway.

To his surprise, Sasha seems to understand what he means. She goes “Oh!” once, very loudly, and snatches the petal back from Tim. “So this- this… s’for us?” 

Martin can’t help grinning, though he’s sure he must look like an idiot. It’s been a long time since he’s grown flowers for anyone, and even longer since they came from feelings so unambiguously nice. Still, it’s a bit embarrassing to have it pointed out so plainly. There’s no doubt in Martin’s mind that his face is dangerously red by now. “Y-yeah. I, um- you’re my friends! I, I like you guys a lot. So... yeah.” 

“Aw, Martin!” 

Sasha hops to his side of the booth, throwing an arm around his shoulders so she can hug him. Tim still looks a bit confused. “Hey, hey, I thought- I thought folks only barfed flowers when they were in love with someone or something?”

“It’s not always like that,” Martin tells him. He tentatively wraps an arm around Sasha, tugging her further into the booth with him so she doesn’t slip back out. When she doesn’t object to the closeness, he tries to relax, and she sounds pleased where she is, tucked under his arm. Seeing his questioning look, she gives him a big smile, and the gap between her front teeth is enough to make him hiccup. Flustered, Martin turns his head away to pull the petals from his teeth as politely as possible. 

Sasha beams at him, pointing. “Hah! You just did it again! You _like_ me.” 

“‘Course he likes you, Sash, everyone likes you,” Tim insists. He leans forward on his elbows, one arm outstretched to tug on Martin’s sleeve. Martin lets him pull it over until Tim can see the new petals. “That’s so weird! Man, I’ve never met someone who’s got hanahaki before. Thought it was always flowers, like the whole flower, and it was ‘cause they’re hung up on somebody.”

“N-no, not always,” Martin says. “Or, um, not just that. For me, anyway, it’s more like, uh… When I have a lot of feelings about someone — big feelings, you could say — they just sort of… pop up on their own.” 

“S’cause you’re such a softie,” Sasha says very seriously, patting his arm. “I always knew it. That you were soft. A soft man.” 

“Soft man,” Tim echoes, nodding. 

“Shut up,” Martin says, but he’s smiling. Another petal flutters on his next breath, and Martin expels it with a sigh. “God, it’s been a while- they’re going to be all over for the rest of the night, likely.” 

“I don’t mind,” Tim says. “It is kinda cool to actually see.” 

Sasha says, “Yeah. And, hey, Martin! Martin!” She gently slaps his wrist. “Why’d you keep it a secret from us?”

“Well, it’s just… It wasn’t anything personal,” Martin tells them. “It’s more that it hasn’t been, uh, happening much lately? When I first joined the institute, at least, it was a little more common, but that was way before I met either of you. By the time we got moved into the archives, I hadn’t grown anything in ages.” 

“So this is the first time?” Tim asks.

Martin buys himself time by taking a sip of his drink, hoping they can’t see his blush returning, or that he can at least blame it on the alcohol. “Yeah, more or less,” he lies. 

“Aw, that’s sweet,” Sasha says. She leans against Martin and tightens her grip around his shoulders. “I like you too, Martin, you’re a good friend.”

“Best boy over here,” Tim agrees.

“Best and softest boy.” 

“Biggest boy, soft boy, best.”

“You two are silly,” Martin insists, but it doesn’t save him from their back and forth. He’s been called a dozen different kinds of boy by the time he convinces them to head out of the bar. 

When Martin finally manages to get back to his apartment, the first thing he does is go to his room and pull out the journal he keeps tucked in the drawer by his bed. It’s not very large — even several years ago, Martin hadn’t been super optimistic about his prospects. He doesn’t mind so much now, finding it charming and somehow more sentimental. Each page is about the size of his hand, more than enough room for names and petals. 

He writes ‘For Tim’ and ‘For Sasha’ on their own separate pages, but makes sure they’re right next to each other. Then, between them, he rests the rose petals. He’ll press them properly this weekend, before they start losing their color, and attach a few on each page. 

A giddy feeling stays with Martin for the rest of the night, speckling his carpet with little spots of yellow. These he picks up before bed and puts in a jar. Once he’s in bed, Martin spends an hour reading up on how to make potpourri on his phone before eventually falling asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's going easy on me =w=; 
> 
> Yellow Rose - friendship

**Author's Note:**

> For fun, I'm gonna offer the interpretations I'm using for the flowers that appear. Obviously these might seem off, I know there are all sorts of references for flower symbolism, but there ya go.
> 
> Bittersweet Nightshade - platonic love, truth, honesty   
> Marjoram - joy, happiness   
> Red & White Carnations - my heart breaks for you, grief, admiration, love  
> White Rose Buds - unacquainted with love, innocence, youth   
> Violets - faith, modesty, everlasting love   
> White Nettle - cruelty, you are spiteful   
> Purple Hyacinth - sorrowful, please forgive me   
> Hop - injustice   
> Fig Marigold - coldness of heart, idleness, grief   
> Elderberries - kindness, but also sorrow and remorse   
> Bluebell - humility, consistency, sorrowful regret


End file.
